Britanny's trident prongs, John,
Was good 'nough law for us.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I

guess,

Though physic's good," sez he,

"It does n't foller thet he can swaller Prescriptions signed ‘J. B.,' Put up by you an' me!”

We e own the ocean, tu, John:
You mus' n' take it hard,
Ef we can't think with you,

John,

It's jest your own back-yard. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, Ef thet's his claim," sez he, "The fencin'-stuff 'll cost enough

To bust up friend J. B.,

Ez wal ez you an' me!'

Why talk so dreffle big, John,
Of honor when it meant

You did n't care a fig, John,
But jest for ten per cent?

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I
guess
He's like the rest," sez he:

"When all is done, it's number one

Thet 's nearest to J. B.,

We give the critters back, John, Cos Abram thought 't was right; It warn't your bullyin' clack, John, Provokin' us to fight.

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess
We've a hard row," sez he,

"To hoe jest now; but thet, somehow,
May happen to J. B.,

Ez wal ez you an' me!”

We ain't so weak an' poor, John,
With twenty million people,
An' close to every door, John,
A school-house an' a steeple.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,
It is a fact," sez he,

"The surest plan to make a Man
Is, think him so, J. B.,
Ez much ez you or me!"

Our folks believe in Law, John;
An' it's for her sake, now,

They 've left the axe an' saw, John,

The anvil an' the plough.

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I

guess,

Ef 't warn't for law," sez he,

"There'd be one shindy from here to Indy;

An' thet don't suit J. B.

(When 't ain't 'twixt you an' me!)"

We know we've got a cause, John,
Thet's honest, just, an' true;

We thought 't would win applause, John,

Ef nowheres else, from you.

Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess
His love of right,” sez he,

66

66

Hangs by a rotten fibre o' cotton:
There's natur' in J. B.,

Ez wal 'z in you an' me!"

The South says, "Poor folks down!" John, An'" All men up!" say we,

White, yaller, black, an' brown, John:

Now which is your idee?
Ole Uncle S. sez he, 66 I

guess,

John preaches wal," sez he

But, sermon thru, an' come to du,
Why, there's the old J. B.
A crowdin' you an' me!"

Shall it be love, or hate, John?
It's you the 's to decide;
Ain't your bonds held by Fate, John,

Like all the world's beside?

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess

Wise men forgive," sez he,

"But not forgit; an' some time yit Thet truth may strike J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me!"

God means to make this land, John,
Clear thru, from sea to sea,
Believe an' understand, John,
The wuth o' bein' free.

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,

God's price is high," sez he;

"But nothin' else than wut He sells Wears long, an' thet J. B.

May larn, like you an' me!"

No. III.

BIRDOFREDUM SAWIN, ESQ., TO MR. HOSEA BIGLOW

With the following Letter from the REVEREND HOMER WILBUR, A. M.

TO THE EDITORS OF THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY

-

JAALAM, 7th Feb., 1862. —

RESPECTED FRIENDS, If I know myself, and surely a man can hardly be supposed to have overpassed the limit of fourscore years without attaining to some proficiency in that most useful branch of learning (e cœlo descendit, says the pagan poet), I have no great smack of that weakness which would press upon the publick attention any matter pertaining to my private affairs. But since the following letter of Mr. Sawin contains not only a direct allusion to myself, but that in connection with a topick of interest to all those engaged in the publick ministrations of the sanctuary, I may be pardoned for touching briefly thereupon. Mr. Sawin was never a stated attendant upon my preaching, never, as I believe, even an оссаsional one, since the erection of the new house (where we now worship) in 1845. He did, indeed, for a time, supply a not unacceptable bass in the choir; but, whether on some umbrage (omnibus hoc vitium est cantoribus) taken against the bassviol, then, and till his decease in 1850 (at. 77,) under the charge of Mr. Asaph Perley, or, as was

reported by others, on account of an imminent subscription for a new bell, he thenceforth absented himself from all outward and visible communion. Yet he seems to have preserved (altâ mente repostum), as it were, in the pickle of a mind soured by prejudice, a lasting scunner, as he would call it, against our staid and decent form of worship; for I would rather in that wise interpret his fling, than suppose that any chance tares sown by my pulpit discourses should survive so long, while good seed too often fails to root itself. I humbly trust that I have no personal feeling in the matter; though I know that, if we sound any man deep enough, our lead shall bring up the mud of human nature at last. The Bretons believe in an evil spirit which they call ar c'houskezik, whose office it is to make the congregation drowsy; and though I have never had reason to think that he was specially busy among my flock, yet have I seen enough to make me sometimes regret the hinged seats of the ancient meeting-house, whose lively clatter, not unwillingly intensified by boys beyond eyeshot of the tithing-man, served at intervals as a wholesome réveil. It is true, I have numbered among my parishioners some who are proof against the prophylactick fennel, nay, whose gift of somnolence rivalled that of the Cretan Rip Van Winkle, Epimenides, and who, nevertheless, complained not so much of the substance as of the length of my (by them unheard) discourses. Some ingenious persons of a philosophick turn have assured us that our pulpits were set too high, and that the soporifick tendency